


red carnations

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [7]
Category: Jamestown (TV), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 1600s au, :D, Alternate Universe - Jamestown Fusion, But different, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, bc look i am NOT happy with the way simeon was handled at ALL, fuck lars what a bastard, hm, homo-erotic wine-drinking, ish? idk it's 3k, no I'm not kidding, so have some, takes place before during and after s02e05, they basically say "fuck lars" and ride off into the sunset at the end tho so, uh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: “Oh, well, still,” the man says, “I must apologize—you see, I was set out to study the frogs.”The odd statement takes him aback, and he blinks. “I—frogs, you say?” he questions, a confused frown tugging at his lips. The fellow fair lights up.“Yes, frogs! Marvelous creatures—did you know some have skin so poisonous a single touch can kill a full-grown man?” he enthuses. “Alas, it would appear that this fine island has—none. Not a single frog!”





	red carnations

**Author's Note:**

> red carnations traditionally mean "I ache for you" so...  
> am I still pissed at Uprising? Indeed, I am  
> and am I very unhappy with the handling of Simeon's character on Jamestown? You betcha  
> and am I dealing with these things by writing a Jamestown!Newmann AU that has a happy ending? Yes, yes I am  
> oh, and despite the fact that "wet sucket" sounds like a very dirty euphemism, they're actually a type of preserved fruit—typically slices of citrus  
> Bermuda does not have any native frogs; those that it has now were introduced in the 1800s

They meet in Bermuda; Lars had bid that he leave, banished to the sweltering tropics until he can bring back to his town—to his sire—something of value. At first, Hermann is delighted—as well he should be, to finally have escaped his father, but soon, it bores him. As Secretary—and simply by his own nature—he is loathe to be parted from the ledger-books, anxiety plaguing him at the thought of a new Secretary destroying his precious work. 

This is how Newton finds him, one morning, lain out in a patch of sun hidden in the forest, light dapping through the canopy, creases on his forehead as he attempts to do sums with a below-grade quill and the shoddy excuse for parchment he’s managed to scrounge up. 

“Good day, good sir,” someone says from behind him, and Hermann almost lets out a shriek of surprise, jumping to his feet. “Oh my! I do hope I haven’t startled you!” the man cries. Hermann takes a moment to observe him. He’s a slim chap, dressed in willowy garments, hair falling in loose brown locks around his face. Beneath the thin cloth, bright pigment bathes his skin. His smile is quick and mischievous, eyes crinkled at the corners. 

Hermann regains himself, steadying his weight upon the walking-cane, and says, stiffly, “Oh, no. I simply hadn’t expected anyone else to know of this place.” In reality, he had specifically sought out the remote location in hopes of deterring inquiries, and the man’s appearance is wholly surprising. 

“Oh, well, still,” the man says, “I must apologize—you see, I was set out to study the frogs.” 

The odd statement takes him aback, and he blinks. “I—frogs, you say?” he questions, a confused frown tugging at his lips. The fellow fair lights up. 

“Yes, frogs! Marvelous creatures—did you know some have skin so poisonous a single touch can kill a full-grown man?” he enthuses. “Alas, it would appear that this fine island has—none. Not a single frog!” 

Hermann considers this for a moment. “Surely that cannot be true?” he asks, but the other shakes his head with a mournful sigh. 

“Quite so, I’m afraid—a pity, to be sure, for you see, I am a biologist attempting to catalogue every species of frog,” he replies. “Ah, well, I suppose I shall simply move on to the next stop.” 

“A biologist?” Hermann repeats, intrigued.  

The other man grins, bouncing on his feet. “Yes—my name is Newton. Newton Geiszler—but please, my friend, call me Newt.” 

Hermann tentatively shakes the offered had and replies, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Geiszler. I’m Hermann Gottlieb.” 

A few months later, Lars sends a missive calling for him to return, citing the need for a proper Secretary. Newton huffs when he reads it aloud, freckles shifting as his nose wrinkles. “Regardless,” Hermann says, sorrowfully, “I am beholden to return.” 

“Then take me with you!” Newton begs, “For I cannot bear to be parted from you, left alone, a mad-man amongst fools. Surely Jamestown could benefit from one of my talents, as an apothecary, perhaps? Please, Hermann, I beg of you.” 

His voice is so distraught, Hermann finds himself bending easily, and Newton’s face lights up with joy at the assent he gives. Later, he gifts Hermann a pearl and ruby earring in thanks, the match of it hidden behind Newton’s curls, a testament to their friendship, and Hermann writes a reply, promising to return before winter, and bring a skilled apothecary with him— _Mister Choi_ , he writes,  _may be adequate at present, but Jamestown is sorely in need of a trained professional_. 

* * *

The return to Jamestown is horrific; the ship they have paid to drop them off along its way is sturdy, but it rocks sickeningly in the early autumn winds, making Hermann green in the face. Newton is, of course, immune, swanning across the decks gracefully, and tending to the Secretary. Though clammy and half-fevered, Hermann still flushes in embarrassment at the other’s ministrations, and their small, shared quarters hardly do anything to ease his mortification at being dependent upon another. 

Finally, the ship approaches the harbour after a week at sea, and Hermann, grasping Newton’s arm, clambers above deck, drawing in lungfuls of fresh air. The ship finally docks, and Hermann near races down to dry land, Newton following behind him at a slower, loping pace. 

“Lars,” he greets tersely, “I would like to introduce you to our new apothecary, Doctor Newton Geiszler. Marvellous fellow. We became aquatinted in Bermuda—” 

“Did I ever see such a bright blaze of a capotain hat?” Newton enthuses, plucking the hat in question from its hatbox, where Amara has dropped it on the ground. “And who might wear such a delight?” He flashes a grin at Hermann, and Hermann feels a smile tug at his own lips in reply. 

“Oh, it ain’t for me, sir,” Amara says bashfully, “it’s for my mistress, Widow Shao.” 

“Hermann,” Lars sniffs, disdainful, and Hermann jerks his attention back to the Sheriff. “Why have you brought such a bauble back to Jamestown?” 

“He is hardly a  _bauble_ , Sheriff,” Hermann hisses, “Newton is a trained apothecary—it is in the town’s best interests to treat him with respect.” 

Lars glares imperiously. “I witnessed what happened to you when you accommodated your two young favorites in London—debts and ridicule,” he sneers, and Hermann flushes beneath his collar, biting back the urge to growl and bare his teeth. 

“This is different,” he grits out, instead. 

Lars sniffs again. “Regardless, you are in charge of him—any mistake he makes shall be treated as your mistake, understood?” Hermann jerks a sharp nod, hand tightening around the head of his cane. 

Later, after Hermann shows Newton around his modest home, they make their way to Mister Choi’s apothecary, to allow Newton to get an inventory of their stores.  

“This here’s tonic for headaches, and that shelf is full of dried herbs,” Choi says. “I must confess, Mister Geiszler, I am quite glad to have someone else to take over my position—I’ve been managing alright with what I have, but, well…” he trails off. 

The door creaks open, announcing the arrival of another party, and Hermann turns to see who it is. “Excuse the intrusion,” Widow Shao demures, “I dearly wish to welcome our intriguing visitor.” 

“Newton Geiszler, madam,” Newton greets, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to it that makes Hermann’s gut twist. “Oh, but I can now see why such a dazzling hat was required,” Newton adds, “it must mean, dear madam, that we might exchange compliments and ply the art of vanity.”  Shao laughs titteringly, pressing her hand against her chest. 

Hermann’s irritation rises. “Widow Shao, we are conducting a delicate business with Mister Choi,” he snaps, and the Widow turns to him, a scowl barely hidden, as if to say something, but someone calls her name from the street, and she leaves, casting a chilly glance at Hermann as she does so. 

* * *

Though days pass, and most of the town, including Governor Pentecost, seem to at least tolerate Newton, Lars becomes more and more overt in his aggressions. One night, they are sitting together in the tavern, and Lars rises from his seat upon seeing them, tankard in hand. “We have a law,” he bellows, pausing to throw back the rest of the ale, before slamming the tankard on the table. “Passed here in Virginia, in 1610—” 

“Lars,” Hermann tries, attempting to dissuade him from continuing, to no avail.  

Lars simply points a finger at the two of them, and spits, “No man shall commit the  _horrible_ and  _detestable sin_  of sodomy. He that can be lawfully convicted of such an—an abomination and evident proof made thereof—” 

“You know the law as well as I,” Hermann interjects, but the older steamrolls on. 

“—that they be whipped! They shall beg for public forgiveness before the congregation! Let any actor bestial buggery be—” A sudden burst of laughter from Newton cuts him off, and horror creeps up Hermann’s spine as Lars strides towards them “Do you find this matter so amusing, Mister Geiszler, that it brings you to laughter?” he spits. “If you do not hear that sound,  _sir_ , I do—’tis the death knell.” 

“Lars,” Hermann hisses, rising to his feet, and grasps the elder Gottlieb by the arm and leads him out. Once outside, the other rips his arm from his grasp, and they circle each other wearily. “Lars, you must leave Newton be—he is a highly-trained apothecary, and with the impending onset of autumn, and then, after that, a harsh winter, it would not do to alienate him.” 

“Do you not see,” Lars retorts, “I do this for you. To save you from dangerous intoxication.” 

“I have no need of your—your  _protection_ ,” Hermann spits. “I am a guardian of my own fate.” 

“He will beguile you,” Lars warns, “I see it and you will stoop and be lost.” He turns, slamming the tavern door as he enters, and Hermann remains in the chilly darkness. 

 _He already has_ , he thinks,  _and I do not wish to_ _be redeemed_. 

* * *

A few days later, when the sky is clear and the weather is pleasant, Newton calls for him to bring his horse and follow him into the woods. “For a fun excursion,” he promises, eyes twinkling, and Hermann, powerless to refuse, mounts Bucephalus and follows him into the woods.  

They reach a clearing, and Newton dismounts, setting down the large basket he’s been carrying on his lap. From it, he pulls a large cloth, spreading it across the ground, and a flask. “I felt that you deserved to relax,” he says, “please, sit. Have some wine—I even managed to smuggle out a few pastries.” 

“Ah, Newton,” Hermann sighs, divesting himself of the stifling formal layers. “You are an angel amongst men.” 

Newton grins, and he eases back sipping at the flask and passing it back to the shorter man. Once it’s emptied, he’s propped his arm under his head, and Newton is watching him intently. “Ah, Hermann Gottlieb,” he sighs, “you look splendid lying there.” He chuckles, the sound warming Hermann’s skin like the summer sun. “I delight in every part of you.” 

Hermann’s throat is tight as he says—nay,  _whispers—_ “And I delight in you, dear Newton.” 

The gap between them is growing smaller, and, desperately, Hermann breathes, stuttering, “The urge is—is forbidden by law.” 

Newton’s eyes lock with his before sliding lower, flickering to his mouth, and he murmurs, “No one need ever know.” 

“I will know,” Hermann chokes out, yearning still for the touch. 

“Hermann,” Newton breathes, presses his lips to his, softly. Hermann lets out a faint sigh, fighting against his eyes, which threaten to flicker shut. When Newt parts, drawing back a scant few centimetres, he says, “I have seen how your eyes  _devour_ me when you think I’m not aware that you’re looking. I know the looks of men when they  _admire_ me. When they  _desire_ me. But you—you  _love_ me. Will you deny it?” 

His throat is locked, his muscles paralysed, a war within him, and all he can say, like a broken record, is, “‘Tis forbidden—did you not hear the Sheriff say it?” 

“The Sheriff is not here,” Newton retorts, slim fingers fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. Hermann’s gaze is drawn to the action. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you.” 

“I—I dare not,” Hermann croaks, tracing the motion of the other’s fingers as the second, then third, then fourth and fifth button come undone, and the shirt slides off one of Newton’s shoulders, revealing the bright ink on his skin. 

“But we might hold each other in all tenderness and sweetness and shameless intimacy,” Newton urges, leaning forward once again, and—

With a  _crack_ , Hermann smacks the other across the face, sending him tumbling to the ground, breath shallow. “I am the Secretary of the Company Of Virginia,” Hermann hisses, “a respected and wealthy man of position. I will not be destroyed by—by mere  _emotion_.” His voice shakes, and he refuses to look at the other. “Can I pity you, your paltry heart?” It’s too much, and he buries his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body is wracked with sobs. 

“We are not done, Hermann,” Newton says quietly, “I love you and you love me. I will show you what is possible between two souls.” 

Somehow, the fact that the other isn’t yelling, isn’t trying to leap at him, trying to draw blood, makes things worse. 

* * *

Against his better judgment, a few days later, when Newton extends to him an invite for dinner, he accepts. It isn’t anything overtly elaborate—they dine at Hermann’s dining table—but the candle-holder, three chime candles lit, casts a flickering light that gives it a wholly different atmosphere than usual. 

Newton reaches for the decanter, pouring a generous amount of wine into the glass. “You have a great thirst upon you this evening, Newton,” Hermann observes, and Newton grins at him lazily, peering at him through half-lidded eyes, and leans over, pressing the lip of the glass to Hermann’s mouth. 

“If emotion cannot reach the Secretary of the colony of Virginia, a  _respected_ man, then perhaps wine can,” he murmurs, pressing more insistently. With a minute swallow, Hermann parts his lips, sipping at the drink, and Newton tips the glass a bit to give him a better angle— 

The door opens with a bang, and Hermann swallows the wrong way, sputtering and gasping for breath, doubling over. 

“Hermann,” Lars growls, “might I join you?” 

“Of—of course,” Hermann finally chokes out, and clears his throat. “Please, Sheriff, I meant to invite you.” 

“Late Lars,” Newton giggles by his side and hiccups, before reaching over to the plate of preserved fruits. “Wet suckets? Come on, now, Hermann, into your mouth.” Powerless, Hermann accepts, and Newton lets out a humming noise. “Mmm. Delicious wet suckets,” he says, licking his fingers. With much effort, Hermann rips his gaze from the sight. 

“The delivery of requested plants is to arrive soon,” Lars says, brusquely, “then Master Geiszler can begin his creation of more effective remedies.” His eyes flicker over the items at the table. “Kissing comfits?” he sneers, and Hermann feels a hot flush crawl beneath his collar. 

“Kissing comfits!” Newton repeats, enthused, and laughs. 

“I believe Master Geiszler is suffering from the effects of strong wine,” Hermann says stiffly. 

“Oh, wine, is it?” Lars sneers, eyes raking up and down his being.  

Hermann makes an aborted movement to fix his shirt collar, and says, steely, “‘Tis no burden. He is drunk now, but soon, he shall conjure for the benefit of the town remedies for even the most detrimental of ailings.” 

“Suppose he fails, Hermann?” Lars questions, “what will you say then? What will you do then? Who will you be then?” 

* * *

Widow Shao comes upon him later, shaking on the floor of the dining room, sobbing. “Get—get out of my house!” he exclaims, “I was just—I’m sick! I’ve just been retching! Some food has poisoned me!” He sobs once again, lets out a keening whimper, and collapses against the leg of the chair. With a sniffle and an exhale, he says, “Do you tell yourselves that you might at last ruin me now that you’ve found me seeking, Widow Shao? Well, go ahead. Tell the governor. I suppose that he would hang me for being weak. If you think you know the business of the colony, you fool yourself. Why do you suppose I was in Bermuda? It was Lars’ bidding. So you can—you can go and tell Pentecost,” he rubs his nose with the back of his hand, eyes stinging. “You can go tell him that you found the Secretary on his knees with another man. It will make no difference. He already possesses me.” 

“I did come here to ruin you,” she says, “but when I saw a man so distressed, what I felt was pity.” 

“I prefer you hatred, Widow Shao,” he spits, bitterly. 

* * *

Later that night, he awakens to Newton at the foot of his bed. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he hisses, but Newton ignores him, continuing to throw clothes into a saddle-bag. A thought grips him, and he chokes out, “You’re—you’re leaving, aren’t you?” 

Finally, Newton turns to face him. “Not without you,” he says, fiercely. 

“I—,” Hermann says, only to be cut of as Newton crosses the room in two strides, framing Hermann’s face with his fingers. 

“Think of yourself, for once,” he urges, “Jamestown can survive without us. We can leave—run off into the West, build a home on the prairie, or in the woods, hunt game and fish. We can be happy, Hermann. Together. Will you come with me?” 

Hermann gazes at him for a moment, dumbstruck, before he gasps, “ _Yes_ ,” and pulls Newton forward for a kiss, achingly sweet. With a reluctant moan, they break apart, remembering the precious constraints of time. 

“You have the necessary items packed?” Hermann questions, “knives, guns,  _munitions_ , flint stones—” 

“You needn’t worry, dearest Hermann,” Newton soothes, “I’ve remembered it all. Bellerophon and Bucephalus are waiting out behind the house, ready to go—they’ve been fed and watered, and with winter not coming for two more months, we will reach more hospitable climates far before we need worry about keeping them from starvation.” 

Newton’s words calm the panic in his mind, and he nods, lacing his fingers with the other. “Lead on, then, good Master Geiszler.” 

* * *

They finally settle on the outer edge of the woods, hundreds of miles—perhaps even thousands—from Jamestown. The members of the area’s tribe do not venture this far out, and they leave the natives to themselves, more than happy to live and let live. The house they’ve built is small but cosy, a smoke-house for drying meat nearby. 

At first, the interior is quite barren, the chairs hewn from wood, and not much else, but as time goes on, they master the art of creating thread, and from that thread, cloth. 

Newton jokes that it’s a good thing, too, as their Jamestown clothing, both too hot and too conspicuous, is starting to wear thin. Hermann cuffs him around the ear and goes back to cutting vegetables for stew. 

“I love you,” Hermann says, tracing the intricate tattoos on Newton’s skin, pressing a kiss to each of the freckles adorning his face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

“Who would have supposed the Secretary is a sentimental sort?” Newton says, idly, and draws him down for a slow, open-mouthed kiss.  


End file.
